


Throne of Rock

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2004-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rather twisted version of Rapunzel, focusing largely on Melkor as the witch. Also starring Maedhros and Fingon in their respective roles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

When Maedhros was captured, he fought against those who tied him, but to no avail. Finally he was tied and taken to the throne of the Dark Lord.

Those were the days when Morgoth was yet able to assume a form that seemed fair to elves. And even Maedhros, proud and cold with the force of his hatred, marvelled at the beauty of the power before him, that seemed to surpass Varda herself in this fortress of dark stone.

“You are fire,” Melkor told him. “Your place is with me.”

Maedhros refused to answer, but his silence seemed negated by the long white hand that reached out to touch his mouth. The touch of the Vala seemed to warm him as much as the sight of the Silmarils that glowed in the iron crown with a fierce purity.

“I thought the jewels would brighten at my touch,” Melkor said, “but they have scorched me instead.” His hand moved gently up Maedhros’ face, past his cheekbones and his eyes, to touch his hair. “Would you do the same?”

Something in Maedhros shivered and cried out, and he tried to jerk away from the touch. “I would,” he said squarely, facing the timeless eyes with all the strength in him.

Melkor took his hand away and sat gazing upon the elf for a long time. Finally he spoke, and his voice had changed. It was no longer the voice of a Quendë, but something that held an echo of the mountains in them, and the forging of ancient steel. His words reverberated in Maedhros’ soul. “Do you remember Alqualondë?” he asked.

Then it was Maedhros’ turn to be silent, but eventually he spoke as well. “I could not forget.”

“What did you feel then?” the voice asked.

“Fear,” Maedhros answered blankly. “Pain. Anger.”

“What else?”

“Madness, as it happened. Shock, when it was done.”

“But not regret.”

Maedhros was silent, helpless.

“What else did you feel?”

“Not…not regret.”

“What else did you feel?”

He felt Melkor’s eyes burning into him. Maedhros swallowed. “Power. Energy.”

“Exaltation.”

Maedhros finally looked away.

Melkor smiled then, and his voice and eyes resumed a lesser force. “Your place is with me.”

As Melkor stood, Maedhros tried one last time to defy. “Never,” he said, with all his innate conviction, and his anger made him seem like an Ainu. “My place is with the people of the King you slew.”

Melkor smiled. “And I mean to make amends.”

 

As Maedhros’ bonds were freed, he became aware of the impossibility of escape. Melkor’s eyes were on him, and he was trapped in the midst of a ring of orcs. They were ugly, foul-smelling, crude creatures. He could not suppress a shudder. They had been called ‘Melkorhini’ by the grandfathers in Aman. Maedhros thought it was a mockery of parenthood.

He found himself walking down an endless passageway, surrounded by the – the word tasted bitter on his tongue – _yrch_. He had always found it difficult to believe Finwë’s stories of the corruption of elves. Surely the fëa was radiant and unbreakable? After all, was it not made of light, as the chain that had once bound Melkor to the Void had been? Now as he looked at the orcs, he realised that Finwë had been right. The body was the mirror of the soul, he had been taught. The truth of it hit home now. In Aman, no one had been – like this. Yet it was not the decay that made him ill. He noticed things now – a glint of golden hair, a delicate ear, a patch of pale skin, disfigured by pockmarks, that reminded him of what they once were.

The orcs seemed not to care. Some of them cowered behind his back, afraid of his light. Others walked dully around him. None of them met his eyes. And yet, like him, they could bear to be in the presence of a Vala and not crumble. He cringed again.

“Experiments gone wrong,” Melkor murmured to him, appearing at his side as they ascended a steep flight of stairs. Maedhros started at the suddenness of it.

Melkor turned to him, mouth curving softly. “Are you shy of me, _hína_?”

No one had called him that for years. To hear the word spoken in such gentle, teasing affection from the Dark Lord caused Maedhros more pain than he would have thought possible. His heart twisted for a moment, recalling his father. Then he collected himself, and looking straight ahead, he continued to ascend the stairs.

It was still possible to do that. Maedhros was one for whom courage had come hard-earned. It was not an instinctive, irresponsible thing in him as it was in Fingon. Yet strangely, in the presence of the greatest danger he had yet faced, he was calm. It was as though someone had frozen his heart, stopped it from beating too much or too loud. Everything was still and almost - peaceful.

They walked for a long time. Melkor’s silence began to feel oppressive. He seemed to walk as fast or slowly as Maedhros wished, always. By and by the orcs fell behind, until there was no sound or sign of them that Maedhros could discern.

“You have –“ he said, and stopped. His voice was shaking. Melkor seemed not to have heard, for he kept on ahead, as Maedhros had done earlier.

“You make a hideous understatement,” he said, not caring to control his anger.

Melkor turned and looked at him.

“Experiments – gone wrong? Experiments gone wrong?”

“Yes,” Melkor said, in a patient, explanatory tone. “What do you not understand about that? Do the Noldor not study the science of stone, judging how best it may be carved to give the most light? Were your father’s jewels made in one attempt?”

“They were not stone, these creatures. Your minions. They were elves.”

“And they shall be something else presently,” Melkor said.

“We are not yours to meddle with!” Maedhros said. Part of him fought to keep silent, for fear and pride. Yet part of him felt bold, and reckless, and wanted this to be over one way or another.

Melkor looked at him again, and once more Maedhros felt the gaze burn into him. Only this time it scorched his spirit, twisting and burning its way into his mind like lines of fire. He struggled to breathe, staggering against the roughly-hewn wall as he tried to fight the feeling, to block his soul off from the terrible heat. None could touch the mind of an elf without his own will and consent. Even Manwë himself had never been known to do so. And now Melkor was leaving his marks on Maedhros’ innermost being.

It withdrew suddenly, and Maedhros was amazed at the sudden and complete disappearance of the pain. He gulped the cold, dank air in huge amounts, trying to steady himself. He felt consumed by shame.

“Then whose are the lives of the Eldar, that they may meddle with them? The ones who took you away to a remote island, cutting you off from the world?”

Maedhros’ head shot up.

“That is why we left,” he said. “And you are worse than them.”

He braced himself for more pain, but it did not come. Melkor’s eyes were almost black, like the eyes of Manwë.

The Vala shook his head. “Do not lie to yourself. That is not why you came. You have simply followed me.”

Maedhros finally felt his heart lurch. It was fear, but of a different kind than he had expected. It was the fear of the suspicion planted by Melkor’s words.

“You Quendi think that the Valar have been made to serve the Children of the One. Why?”

Maedhros was silent. Melkor recited in ringing tones, “The Music of the Ainur made the world in preparation for the Awakening of the Children of the One, called Eru. Called Ilúvatar.” His voice contained utter disdain for the lesson Maedhros had learnt when he was very young. “Is that why?”

Still Maedhros was silent.

“The Music was wrong,” Melkor told him.

Maedhros looked up at the face of the Vala, his eyes filled with something like despair, and something now approaching fear. The light around Melkor’s form seemed to fade, leaving them in increasing darkness.

They began walking up the stairs again. There was no longer any light to see by, but the steps were easy to climb.

Suddenly Melkor spoke again. “You must learn to speak softer, Maitimo. Discourtesy is merited only by those weaker than oneself.”

“The Valar, you see,” he continued, “are not meant to serve the Children. The Valar are meant to rule the Children.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather twisted version of Rapunzel, focusing largely on Melkor as the witch. Also starring Maedhros and Fingon in their respective roles.

The stairs were cold and smooth, and there were signs of neither life nor death along them, only an ancient smell of dampness, and a silence so complete that it seemed to fill his lungs as he breathed. Maedhros never knew how long he climbed, but climb he did. His sandals wore out. Melkor did not feign to notice him as he fell behind from time to time as his body cried for rest. Then something violent would well up in him and his limbs would find new energy as he strode to keep up with the Vala. He would not accept defeat. Not when he had seemed to come so far.  
  
He did not immediately notice when they approached the top of the stairs. In the days after the death of the Trees he had grown used to starlight, yet it was only as he felt the gusts of cold air that he looked up and recognised the familiar diamond-brightness in the night sky.   
  
He stumbled up and out onto a large, flat stretch of mountaintop. The stone beneath his bare feet was dark and icy. The wind swirled around him, heavy and cold as mist. And yet, the air that he breathed seemed the purest, sharpest thing he had felt since he had left Valinor. He gulped it, feeling his strength return a little. He had never been to so high a place before. From Taniquetil he had been able to see all of Aman, but here there was only distance – loneliness, and a darkness so deep that he could forget, easily, that the earth existed beneath his feet.  
  
"You are at the roof of the world," Melkor announced. His voice held joy, a kind of laughter.  
  
Fatigue had overcome the last of his restraint. "Why?" Maedhros asked.  
  
Melkor looked almost puzzled. "To see this," he said, gesturing around them.  
  
Maedhros stumbled to the edge of the cliff and peered over. The rock face was a sheer, straight drop into the clouds.   
  
His knees gave way and he sank down to the stone. Out of a habit that had been practiced longer than it had been abandoned, he raised his eyes and called to Varda, only half aware of what he was doing, not expecting an answer.  
  
And there was no answer.  
  
Melkor laid his hands on his shoulders. Maedhros started at the shock of warmth, but allowed himself to be raised without a struggle. Melkor looked at Maedhros before him, his clothes worn thin on his body, his hair loose like a wine-dark cloud about him.  
  
"This is yours," he told Maedhros.  
  
Maedhros raised his eyes wearily to Melkor's own. "Why?" he repeated again, believing that he had lost some grip on his sanity. Part of him was fighting to stay alive, yet another was struggling to leave this hröa and be set free. He had no idea which one was because of Melkor.  
  
"Tell me who you are," Melkor said to him.  
  
Maedhros stayed silent. He knew this was a trick, a ploy to destroy whatever he offered up by way of word or gesture. But Melkor did not allow him to be silent.  
  
"Tell me," he said, and his eyes held a command and a challenge that could not be gainsaid, "who you are."  
  
And Maedhros answered. "I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo, son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel."  
  
"Grandson of Finwë."   
  
"Yes."  
  
"King Finwë."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"King of the mightiest race of the children of Eru."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That is who you are," Melkor said, satisfied.  
  
"Yes," Maedhros answered. "Yes. That is who I am."  
  
Melkor raised his arms. "And that is why this is yours."  
  
Maedhros looked blankly at him.   
  
Melkor's voice was musical, patient as ever. "Child, child," he said, almost kindly, "would you deny your Kingship of the Noldor?"  
  
"I would not."  
  
"And you should not," he said, and now there was something like pride in his voice. "for in you is such grace of beauty and strength, the Children of Eru would gladly give you their throne. Already you have been twice-cheated in Aman, by your own kind, and mine. Take this mountain as your seat now, Maitimo, and govern what is to come from here."  
  
Maedhros snapped back at him. "Yet when we spoke last, _my lord,_ you claimed that the world was meant to be ruled by you, and not the likes of me." He seemed to have passed the point of fear. He was prepared for pain, even death. "And now you mock me by claiming me as King. I do not want your throne."  
  
Melkor did not seem offended, but there was something – a mild disappointment – he seemed to feel. "You misunderstand," he said. "You equate my idea of rulership with yours."  
  
Maedhros tried to close his ears to the sound of the voice, but failed. "To be king of your kind, what must you do? You earn their submission to your will, as Finwë did. You make laws, you sit in judgement, you decide what keeps them happy. Am I wrong?"  
  
Maedhros said nothing.  
  
"What do I have to do with laws, and justice, and happiness? What part of you can ever comprehend how little these things mean to me? My kin do all this for you in your island, but not for their own sake, can you see? They do it to make themselves like you. As I must speak your tongue so that you may understand me. They debase themselves."  
  
"And submission," he continued, "I do not need to earn your submission. It is mine whether you give it or not. With a single thought of mine I may own your body and your soul to do as I wish, for as long as I wish."  
  
"Then what do you want?" Maedhros cried. "What do you want?"  
  
Melkor studied the fallen elf before him for a long time, considering, weighing him in some awesome balance of his own. Then he spoke. "Your father," he said, "your father had some little idea of what I want. But it was his undoing. Why," his lip curled contemptuously at Maedhros' angry, helpless glare, "do you believe I enjoy ugliness? That I made those _yrch_ because I wished to mar their beauty? Your opinion of the One must be low, if you believe his mightiest creation is no more than a creature of spite, and envy.  
  
"I cannot become a mere lawgiver among you, as the others have done. I understand that you need one among you to do that – one who may be worshipped and adored and submitted to. Among all the children of Eru, that one is you, as it was your grandfather before you. He would not listen to me – would not care to – it was too late for him."  
  
Maedhros spat at Melkor.   
  
Melkor's eyes glittered dangerously. Then Maedhros crumpled to the ground as he felt the bones in his body break under an unseen force. He could make no sound – he felt his jaw shatter, even as his throat failed him. It was all over before Melkor blinked his eyes.  
  
He stood over the writhing body of his captive. His tone was grave, sober, almost entirely like Manwë's. "Remember what I told you, Maitimo," he said. "I do not have to suffer your ideas of right and wrong."   
  
He drew out a chain that he had not held before, a short iron rope, and threw it casually on the stone floor, a little away from Maedhros. "We shall meet again," he said, and left Maedhros alone.   
  
  
  
  
_more to come in this chapter...._


End file.
